


High For This

by aghamora



Category: How to Get Away with Murder
Genre: Exhibitionism, F/M, Recreational Drug Use, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-16
Updated: 2017-01-16
Packaged: 2018-09-17 23:20:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9350693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aghamora/pseuds/aghamora
Summary: Or, the one where Frank and Laurel get baked out of their minds and fuck in front of everyone.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I debated making this a chap of Bedroom Hymns, because I've been neglecting that fic lately, but idk. I love coming up with titles and summaries separately and making fics their own //thing//. Which is a stupid reason. But.
> 
> You know where the title's from. I'd say sue me but I'm afraid one of these days someone is actually gonna take me up on that.

This makes Laurel think of a saying, sort of. _When the cat’s away the mice will play._

Or, more specifically – when Annalise Keating is away on a business trip, her employees and interns will proceed to get very drunk and/or very high in her office to blow off the steam of a sixty-hour work week.

She’s too baked to remember how this all got started, but she has the vague impression it was Connor who decided it was Bring Your Bud to Work Day, Frank who rolled the joints, and Asher who proposed dipping into Annalise’s bar. Or maybe it was Asher and the pot and Connor and the bar. She’s pretty sure Frank rolled the joints, though.

She’d observed his fingers _very_ closely.

Connor has a plethora of unidentified white pills, too, but she thinks he’s the only one who’s taken any of them. He’d tried to coerce Michaela who had rebuffed him, then failed to inform everyone that she’d never smoked before, pretended to be a pro and inhaled far too long and way too deep, and proceeded to collapse into a fit of awful, hacking coughs. And come pretty close to dying, in Laurel’s admittedly limited medical opinion.

But that was an hour ago, and now she’s all giggly and pleasantly spaced-out and continually trying to poke Wes, who made the mistake of getting drunk first and now is sitting in the corner, and isn’t looking all that good. The six of them are sprawled out in various states of impairment around the living room; Asher had suggested they get Bonnie in on the fun but Frank had nixed that idea quickly, certain that she’d put the kibosh on all of this, and Laurel thinks that was probably a good call.

She isn’t bad drunk, though. Might’ve been a little fun to see her stoned.

“Any idea how you’re gonna explain the smell to Annalise?” Michaela chortles, propping her feet up on the coffee table and looking over at Frank, who is slouched in an armchair.

Frank shrugs, thoroughly unconcerned, and takes a drag. “Won’t be back ‘til tomorrow. It’ll air out by then. If it don’t…” He drifts off, exhales, and gives another shrug. “I’ll figure it out. Let her get in on the action next time.”

“Next time?” Connor snorts through the haze of smoke in the air, from his spot on the couch next to Michaela. “We doing a weekly after-work toking sesh now?”

“Next time,” Laurel chimes in, making her way over to Frank’s chair and settling herself down on the armrest, grinning cheekily at him. She holds out her hand for the joint, and he passes it over dutifully, “we should hotbox your car.”

“No way,” he grunts. “I’m not lettin’ you kids stink up the BMW, that shit’s expensive.”

Laurel feigns surprise, taking a drag, holding it in for a moment, before releasing it in one long, pointed puff in his direction. “Oh, so I’m a kid now?”

“Nah,” Frank undertones, reaching over to rest his hand on her knee, just below the hem of her grey pleated skirt. It’s shorter than she usually wears to work, with black knee socks instead of tights, and his eyes linger on her bare skin, gaze as languid as the flow of smoke passing through her lips. He winks, and her heart jumps, like he’s tugged at one of its ventricles. “’Course not.”

Michaela hands her the bottle of vodka, and she takes a small swig, passing the joint back to Frank, watching the cherry glow orange-gold with a strange sort of fascination, then following it to his lips as he places it between them, takes a long pull, leans his head back slightly, and exhales. He ashes it and holds it in his hand for a moment, turning it over almost as if in contemplation, staring at the thing for no real reason Laurel can discern.

She’s never been into smokers. Never thought it was even remotely attractive, after living with her father and his obnoxious affinity for Cuban cigars. But the way Frank is doing it now is so ridiculously, stupidly hot she almost can’t tear her eyes away, can only lick her lips and watch him and try not to squirm at the feeling of his hand resting just above her knee.

Try not to think about where she’d rather have that hand instead.

He _looks_ hot, too. Hotter than hell, even hotter than usual, all slick hair and disheveled three-piece suit, blue eyes cloudy, body relaxed and slumped, joint pinched between his fingers almost elegantly. His sleeves are rolled up, exposing his thick forearms, platinum Rolex strapped around his wrist. He leans over, passing the joint to Asher, then leaning back in the chair and slouching once more, thighs splayed apart, that familiar cocky air about him, but somehow, some way, he also exudes class.

She wants to snort. A misogynistic ass with class. Maybe that’s the high talking.

She’s not exactly seeing straight right now.

She notes the absence of his hand on her knee at almost the exact same second he does, and Frank replaces it with a grin, dragging it idly up and down and barely, just barely starting to slip it underneath her skirt, dangerously high. He catches her eye, and there’s a wicked, knowing gleam in his, a smirk on his face, which widens when he hears her breath hitch in her throat. She angles herself toward him almost subconsciously, seeking his hand, seeking more of his touch, and not giving a damn that the others are around until-

“Hey, hands to yourself over there,” a voice breaks in. Connor’s voice; his all too familiar mocking sneer. “I understand we’re doing a high school redux tonight, but _please_ refrain from fucking under the bleachers.”

Asher giggles in the armchair next to them – not a laugh, or a chuckle; a legitimate, high-pitched, grating _giggle_ , as the joint makes it way around the circle again and ends up back in Laurel’s hand. Laurel shoots him a withering glare, and she thinks she sees Frank flick him off but somehow that doesn’t feel like enough of a rebuke. She wants _more_ , and she doesn’t know exactly what makes her do it, what wild impulse takes over her brain, but before she realizes it she’s taking a hit, breathing it in smooth and easy, holding the smoke in, then leaning over, bending down, and kissing Frank on the lips.

It’s not quite a kiss; it’s more of a collision than anything, too much teeth and saliva and smoke but so much unimaginable _heat_. Heat that catches between her legs and spreads like leaping flame, climbing higher and higher until she can feel it in her clit, her nipples, burning her face, all the way up to her hairline. It feels like fire, kissing him. Passing the smoke into his mouth and tasting it, tasting him.

It doesn’t last long, and after it’s over they break apart, smoke flowing up and around them, into their noses, burning her throat a little, but it’s nothing terrible. Laurel doesn’t move away after, though; not entirely. She stays lowered there, her lips ghosting over his, staring into his eyes and breathing him in like she could get high off his heady scent alone, and nearly forgetting she has the joint at all until Connor whines again.

“’ey, nymphos, we get it, okay?” he quips. “Now quit hoggin’ my shit and pass it.”

“For real,” Michaela scoffs, giving a giggle that sounds eerily similar to Asher’s, “we don’t need to see the PDA. You talk about it all the damn time already.”

Laurel furrows her brow, managing to fix her eyes somewhat firmly on Michaela, and moves away from Frank, settling back onto the armrest. “Talk about what?”

“Your guy’s _exalted_ sex life,” the other girl cackles. “We have enough of your hoe stories to fill like ten spank banks, Laurel.”

If Laurel were in her right mind, she thinks she’d take the time to contemplate how she never would’ve imagined she’d hear the words _spank bank_ leave Michaela Pratt’s mouth. But since she isn’t, not even close, she just laughs, and maneuvers herself sideways, agile and catlike, plopping herself down onto Frank’s lap and swinging her legs across his when he makes room for her, body feeling abnormally light, full of air bubbles, like at any second she could float away from here, a balloon snipped from its string. She wriggles her eyebrows over at Michaela, teasingly.

Frank opens her mouth before she can, however, giving her a grin and wrapping his arm possessively around her waist. He doesn’t look angry; he looks blissfully calm, almost impressed. “Really? You give ‘em the nitty gritty deets?”

“Damn right she does,” Connor chimes in, leaning forward suddenly, like he’s made a decision for the group. A wolfish grin folds itself out onto his features. “Know what? If it’s so good, why not just do a little show and tell?”

Frank scoffs. So does Laurel. She stares, expecting Connor to laugh, play it off as a joke, but he just looks back, unflappable as ever, holding their gaze. Higher than a kite – but serious. Dead serious.

Holy shit.

He _is_ serious.

Frank seems to realize that the same time she does, and raises his eyebrows. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” Connor drawls, and winks, probably with the express purpose of unsettling Frank. “Show and tell. Prove it. If it’s as good as she says, give us a show.” He leans back, slinging his arms across the couch. “C’mon, _titillate_ us.”

“Do it!” Michaela chimes in with a raucous laugh, and Asher snorts.

“Yeah, do it, _do it_!” he urges, trying to begin a chant but failing miserably. “I’ve always wanted to see you guys bang. I _love_ watching people boink, yo!”

Laurel takes a quick survey of the room. Asher and Michaela seem enthused enough – though she thinks Michaela will probably be horrified when she comes down in a few hours and realizes what she’s done. Connor looks most eager – creepily eager. Wes is the only one who hasn’t said anything; to be fair, though, Wes _also_ looks like he’s about to pass out. She glances sideways at Frank, who is probably the soberest of all of them, and he’s just staring back at Connor with a look of foggy disbelief.

Frank rolls his eyes after a moment, scoffing again. “You’re a bunch of damn pervs, you know tha-”

“Fine.”

Laurel doesn’t know what makes her say it. What could possibly make her open her mouth, attach that string of letters into that word, look Connor in the eyes plain as day, and say _fine_. She should be ashamed, humiliated by the thought – not so exhilarated she can feel goosebumps breaking out across her skin, splitting her pores open. The high has stolen all her inhibitions, like they’d risen up and out of her along with the smoke, and she feels tingly all over, wonderfully insane.

Who she is kidding. She gave up sanity long ago. They all did.

Connor blinks, like he’d been sure she’d say no; like he’d never legitimately considered the possibility that she might agree, and Asher and Michaela are giving her similar, wary-eyed looks. For a moment Connor gapes, and then the expression morphs back into a grin that looks downright predatory.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she affirms with a shrug, an air of nonchalance about her, like he's proposed nothing more than a game of truth or dare. “Why not? Not like we have boundaries anymore.”

Frank’s head snaps in her direction, and though he scowls he doesn’t look opposed to the idea – no, not at all. There’s that same look of bleary surprise on his face; pleasant surprise, mixed in with a hint of hunger boiling in the blues of his eyes.

“You sure about this?” he asks, and she bites her lower lip, gnawing on a grin.

“Yeah,” she breathes, and again settles herself down onto his lap, this time straddling him boldly, framing his pelvis with her legs. Her back is turned to the others; they might as well not even be there at all. “Are you?”

“Hell yeah I am.”

Grinning wider, now. Grinning like a pair of lunatics. “Good.”

She’s crazy. They both are, and she wouldn’t change it, wouldn’t want to go back to sanity even if she could because sanity had never thrilled her like this, never made her feel so _alive_ , every inch of her skin pounding, pulsating, like it can’t contain her. Before she can think twice she’s leaning in again, seizing his lips with hers roughly; no pretense of gentleness, no bothering with _slow_ , no denying themselves what they both crave so desperately. She breathes him in like smoke, the musky scent of his cologne, pine or cedar or some sort of wood, and it never fails to be the perfect aphrodisiac, drive her mad. Get her wet between the legs, clit throbbing in her panties – and it is, _God_ it is. It’s a perfect, hypnotic storm, of cologne and smoke and the high and really just _him_ , all of Frank like a whirlwind raging, pulling her in and up, so high she can’t remember what solid ground feels like.

Her vision fades away, her awareness of the others going with it. All she exists to do in that moment is kiss him, and she pours everything in her body into that kiss, her mouth so wide on his that they might as well be melded together. In her hazy state, she almost isn’t sure where her body ends and his begins, and they fade slowly into one; one heartbeat, one mind, one mass of limbs as her hands wander his chest, grip at his slick hair. His hands descend to her ass and dip underneath her skirt and grip her cheeks firmly. She gives a surprised squeak, and before Laurel even realizes it she’s repositioned herself, grinding down on his thigh. Her panties are soaked through by now; the lace never stood a chance against the oncoming flood, and she was wet before but now she’s drenched, enough to leave a wet spot on his slacks as she delves down against him. Seeking friction. Seeking more.

They’re not alone. Everyone is watching. She should be mortified, and part of her is.

Another part of her has literally never been more turned on in her life.

She’s crazy. Fucking out of her mind. But she wants them to know, suddenly; know how wet he gets her, how bad she wants him. Know how good he fucks her. Maybe she’s always wanted them to know and that’s what’d spurred her frequent, not-so-humble humblebrags. Maybe that’s why she’d fucked him on the porch, in the basement. Maybe, secretly, wickedly, she’d been hoping all along someone would see.

Hoping someone would _watch_.

“All right, all right,” a voice cut’s in – Connor’s voice, again. “No one watches the start of the porno with the pizza delivery guy, get to the good part!”

She’s dimly aware of Frank removing one of his hands from her ass and holding it out, flipping Connor the bird once more but not bothering with any verbal threats, and then suddenly he’s maneuvering that middle finger underneath her skirt, shoving the crotch of her panties to the side, and pumping it into her in one swift motion. Telling him to fuck off and fucking her with the same finger.

She manages a laugh, somehow, in the midst of the moan that comes bursting past her lips. This is all so _fucked_.

His hands are huge, his fingers thick. Just one is enough to get her whimpering, hips rocking against the heel of his hand as he grinds it against the swollen nub of her clit, her walls suctioning around the digit, and she has a sudden, wild desire to rip her clothes off, get them out of the way so he can get his hands on her tits, her nipples, her skin simmering and sizzling with need, but she’s also not overly inclined to give Asher and Connor and Wes an eyeful of her naked body, so she refrains.

Even stoned as she is, she still has to have _some_ shame. Some degree of dignity.

Dignity can still be A Thing. Even if they are about to have sex in front of everyone.

Distantly, she can hear their voices; Asher, Michaela. Wes. Fading in and out. _Oh my God are they really going to do this_ and _What the hell guys I was out for two minutes what’s going on_ and _Holy shit, yo, this is lowkey super hot_ , but they sound muffled, like she’s underwater, trying to listen to something on the surface. Like they’re silenced by her own cacophony of internal bodily sounds: blood pumping in her ears, heartbeat thudding frantically like it’s trying to cave her chest in, her panted breaths as she struggles to wrestle air into her lungs. The wet, smacking sounds of their sloppy kisses. He’s kissing her so hungrily. Like he wants to consume her bite by bite.

Her body doesn’t feel real. It doesn’t exist. It’s floated up and away into the clouds and she no longer exists; she’s only a useless, moaning, tangled heap of nerve endings. Senses deactivated – sight, hearing, taste, smell, every one except touch. His hand on her ass. Other spreading her cunt lips wide, tracing the seam of them, thrusting lazily in and out. Her clit is buzzing with electricity. Her nipples, too. Cock in his slacks, rock-hard, rearing to go behind his zipper. The world around her is a faint, warm buzz.

“We doin’ this?” Frank’s voice sounds almost like it’s scraping his throat, like he’s struggling to wrangle the syllables out of his vocal cords. His pupils are dialated, black swallowing up blue, so wide it almost devours his irises entirely, a loopy, disarming grin on his face. “For real?”

“They want a show.” She tilts her head to one side, hair spilling over her shoulder along with it. Her grin is a ravenous, vampiric flash of teeth. “Let’s give ‘em one.”

Frank doesn’t need to be told twice.

Before she can utter another word he’s standing and tugging her up with him, anchoring his hands under her thighs and shifting her up and holding her to him. She wraps her legs around his middle, tight as she can, and he moves with her as if she weighs nothing at all, making his way over to the doorway and pressing her up against it to afford the others a side view of them; a conscious choice, she’s sure.

They’re going to see. All of them. They’re going to _see_ and the thought is so perversely, absurdly arousing she can’t stand it.

She wonders, briefly, what made her this fucked up. Then decides quickly she really doesn’t give a shit.

Frank isn’t gentle. He doesn’t move slow. They have no time for any of that. He all but slams her up against the doorway, pinning her there, and she cries out in pain that somehow doesn’t feel painful at all – not even close. On the contrary; it makes pleasure surge between her legs, a conflagration, burning her up. Making her _drip_. He’s so powerful, so large, and she’s so comparatively small, and she feels almost like a doll at his mercy held there, the pot relaxing her, soothing her muscles and making them loose and rubbery.

“Watch an’ learn,” Frank rasps, turning his head to look at the others, a self-satisfied, smug sneer on his face. “This is how it’s done, kids.”

Fumbling. Him with his belt, then zipper, then her skirt, hiking it up around her hips. They’re both panting, gasping for breath. Again it’s not finessed, or graceful, but her skirt allows him easy access, and Frank has only to shove the elastic of her panties out of the way and take his cock out and position himself there at her sopping folds – and that’s precisely what he does.

He has her. He could linger. Draw it out. Make her beg for it, beg in front of everyone. She probably would. But he doesn’t.

It happens too fast for her fuzzy mind to process. Everything in flashes, like a skipping reel of film, like her brain has lost all cognitive abilities and exists now only to feel. He shifts her up again, hands under her thighs. Lips at her throat, sucking at the soft flesh hard enough to pull red marks from it that she knows will remain for days. He’s moving forward, then. He’s right there, cock jutting out between his legs. Bobbing heavily just before her entrance, and she’s aching, dripping, so ready to take him. Keening. Moaning. Not giving a damn how undignified she sounds.

He’s inside her, then.

No warning. No teasing or dirty talk. He fucks into her in one sharp, purposeful cant of his hips, and he’s so thick around and hard, and it’s so unexpected that she squeals, feeling her walls stretch around him then tighten, her slick coating his length in no time at all. And he’s always been big but somehow, right then, he feels downright _enormous_ , so much so he makes her toes curl, and she can feel him almost brushing her clit as he starts pistoning himself in and out. Roughly. Almost savagely. She slams back against the wood with every thrust and it hurts, and it’s delicious, intoxicating pain, and it isn’t pain at all.

He’s there. Inside her. She never feels more right, more complete than she feels with him right here, buried inside her cunt like he could stay there for an eternity. Normally Frank starts slow, with masterful, leisurely, teasing thrusts, but his movements now are nothing of the sort. He’s taking her. Fucking her in every sense of the word, and yeah, slow and gentle is all well and good but there’s something about this, all this roughness, this animalistic, grunting, groaning _fucking_ that feels so real.

No pretenses. No lies. No play pretend. Just them.

Just them, and what they are, and what they can _do_ to each other.

“ _Fuck_ ,” she grinds out, eyes squeezed shut, head lolling to one side as he nuzzles her neck. Her hands are grasping his hair, still, almost yanking at it. Clawing at his neck. “Fuck… God – _fuck me_ -”

She gets no answer; just an affirmative grunt. That’s what she’s reduced him to; a Neanderthal, communicating in grunts, in groans, all his words stolen from him. There’s nothing more satisfying than seeing Frank like this, face buried in her throat, so completely lost in her and her body. She doesn’t think there’s anyone else on earth for him when he’s inside her like this; she’s the focal point of his universe. His entire world.

As she should be.

The others. The thought flickers in her mind like a lightning-crack, as she feels herself building inexorably. The others are watching. Asher and Connor and Michaela and Wes. Watching him fuck her bare. Watching her take his cock up against a goddamn wall. Listening to her moan. Seeing him ram into her, almost drubbing her, his balls slapping against her. Skin slapping skin obscenely. All of it. She must look like a slut; she sure as hell feels like one. Maybe she is.

If it walks like a duck…

There’s been no new commentary from the peanut gallery, thankfully, but even if there was she wouldn’t be able to hear it. They’re all watching, seeing him fuck her, and it should disgust her, the thought of being some live-action porno, some object, some show, but instead it only drives her on, makes her clamp her thighs together tighter to increase the friction, increase the tightness of her walls around him. It has its intended effect; she hears Frank groan, a low, guttural sound ripped from deep in his chest, and it sends a spike of ecstasy through her, and suddenly she’s piercingly aware of how incredible all this feels, even though fucking Frank is, in general, pretty incredible.

This is different. Stronger.

She can feel every sensation ten times more, and it doesn’t take her long to realize it’s the high. Must be. It’s awakened her body. Enabled a hundred new nerve endings and touch receptors like flipping on breakers in a fuse box. Heightened her senses. She’s abruptly overwhelmingly conscious of her own breathing, and his, and how they sync up now and then as they move. Time elongates, stretches out. Warps. Creeps in slow motion around her. It’s borderline disorienting, and suddenly Laurel has no idea how long they’ve been doing this: seconds, minutes, hours. It feels like it’s been forever since they started, and when she meets his eyes and presses her forehead against his to maintain eye contact, time feels slow as molasses all at once; almost with a certain thickness to it. Thick as syrup, like a tide they’re wading through together.

She can hear voices, now. The others, again, she’s fairly sure. Or maybe voices from some great beyond. Voices in her head.

She is crazy, after all.

_Holy shit, he looks big. Puts the ‘D’ in Frankie D, amiright?_

_We shouldn’t be watching this… guys, what the he-_

_I’ve never had a guy give to it me like… that. Wow._

Harder, now. He’s fucking her harder, fucking her brains out. Fucking them back _in_. Fucking her raw.

Fucking her like he’s trying to fuck her to death.

He wants to show them; what he can do, what he can do to _her_. She can already tell she’s going to ache between her legs tomorrow and she wants to, and suddenly before Laurel can stop herself she’s laughing, in between her moans and cries. Frank smirks, when he hears it, though the expression shakes and wavers, his pace growing more erratic the closer he gets, the more ardently he chases his pleasure.

“We’re crazy,” she breathes, almost cackles. It’s a maniacal sound. She sounds like a madwoman. Feels like one. _Is_ one. They’re freaks – both of them. “ _Oh_ … God. Oh, fuck-”

His body feels like an extension of hers now, like they’re fused. She’s convinced she can feel every atom, every particle, every cell in her body jostling, vibrating. Humming like a hive of bees beneath her skin. She’s close and she knows it, moaning wantonly, helplessly, and out of nowhere she has a moment of blinding lucidity amongst the madness; a flash of clarity.

They’re watching. The others. All of them. She can feel their eyes boring into her, observing her every move, and his. Hearing her moans and cries. They’re watching and they’re going to watch her come, and it’s going to be so humiliating she can feel her face burning, and she wants to hide, hide herself away but she can’t. And she doesn’t want to. And she does.

Coming in front of all of them. Coming all over his cock. He’s going to make her, in front of all of them.

She can’t. She _will_.

Her hand drops down between her legs, finds her clit and paws at it almost madly to bring herself off, and they watch her do that. And she must look like a slut, hand between her legs, rubbing herself frantically, and she feels like one. She’s never felt like more of a slut in her life.

The thought she’d arouse her like it does. Shouldn’t turn her on so much she nearly expires right then and there.

They’re watching. It’s humiliating, twisted, and nothing has ever been hotter – because they’re going to watch her come, watch him make her shake to pieces, hear how he makes her moan. See how good he gives it to her. They’re going to know how _good_ it is and she wants them to, and she knows right then she always has. She’s gone crazy. Maybe he made her crazy.

Maybe she was never sane.

Somehow Laurel feels her orgasm approaching, and she also has no sense of how close she is whatsoever, no way to gauge it – but either way before she knows it she’s coming, breaking to pieces and shuddering, her vision whiting-out around the edges, so much light it’s blinding. It knocks her off her balance, sends her reeling. The world fragments around her, fades to a distant hum in the background and she tenses, throwing her head back against the wall as her fingers scrabble for purchase on his back, arms coiled around him like vines. She’s going boneless. She can’t hold on, and surely he’s going to drop her, but he doesn’t. He’s got her.

He’d never let her fall.

“Fuck me through it,” she chokes out; voice a thin, reedy plea, eyes squeezed shut, face buried into his shoulder as she moves. “Fuck me through it – oh, _ah_ -”

She doesn’t know if it’s the high. Or the fact that the others are watching, watching _her_. Or the way he complies and pummels her as the euphoric waves crest and start to ebb away, ravishing her up against a wall like a damn wild animal – but she doesn’t think she’s ever come harder in her life. She thinks she may be half-screaming, or maybe half-sobbing, or some pathetic, hiccupping combination of both. She has a total, almost painful awareness of every square inch of her body, and somehow at the same time it’s like she feels nothing at all. Like she’s coming _out_ of her body. Seeing herself from the outside. Some sort of religious experience.

She has no idea how long it lasts. Could be minutes, or hours; she has no grasp on time. She only barely feels Frank spilling inside of her with a feral growl, tucking his face beneath her chin, coming hot inside her. Marking his territory. She wants them to know he does that.

Wants them to see.

She’s his. He’s hers, too. Hers, and they all know it, and Frank is so lost in her body as he comes, as she clenches around him, that she knows she’s the only person in the world who exists for him, right then. That everyone else might as well be dead, and they’re the last ones standing.

He’s hers. Just as much as she’s his.

Finally, as they go still and he pulls out, a chorus of voices fade into her consciousness, out of nowhere. Cheers, perplexingly enough. Applause. She blinks, and turns, and finds Connor and Asher clapping, cheering them on like they’re watching a sports match. Michaela looks stunned, more than a little turned on. Wes is passed out in the corner again, eyelids falling shut. She doubts he saw even half of it – but the rest of them did, that much is certain.

“Touchdown!” Asher hoots, letting his hands shoot into the air. “ _Booyah_!”

“Oh my God,” Michaela mutters, shaking her head. She squirms, looking more than a little flustered. “I… wow. That was-”

“God _damn_ ,” Connor remarks, raising his eyebrows, still puffing away at the joint. “Y’know, for straight people, I must admit… you two have hella good sex.”

“Believe me.” Frank lets her down and grins, tucking himself away, steadying his breathing long enough to say, “You don’t know the half of it.”

“So,” Laurel quips, just as breathless, as she smoothes her skirt back down and smirks, “any questions?”

“Yeah, uh,” Asher pipes up, motioning to the two of them, then to himself. “Threesome, or…?”

Connor snorts. “We never _did_ have that orgy, now that you mention it.”

“Uh uh,” Frank says, shaking his head, plopping back down into the armchair and tugging Laurel down with him. He’s strikingly composed, not shy at all; like nothing happened, like they didn’t just _fuck_ in front of their co-workers, and Laurel’s surprised to find herself similarly unfazed, though she suspects that might change when she comes down. “Think you freaks’ve seen more n’ enough of my dick for one night. Now gimme that.”

Asher obliges, handing the joint over to him, and Frank takes a hit, savoring the smoke, before turning it over in his fingers and raising an eyebrow.

“But,” he says, coy as ever, “you keep bringin’ me good shit like this, Walsh… one day I just might reconsider.”


End file.
